


Friendlier with two

by marieincolour



Series: The adventures of Clint "Baby Duckling" Barton [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bed-Wetting, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy!Steve, Deaf Clint Barton, Diapers, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Little!Tony, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Wetting, daddy!Phil, little!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where's Coulson?" Clint asked. Natasha frowned at him like he was a puzzle, which, okay, was pretty much her natural state, but so did Steve. "He's in Paraguay. He didn't tell you?"</p><p><i>In which Clint can't decide if Phil is saving the world or running away from home, and he might be overreacting just a tiny bit.</i><br/>Heed the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Littlest Avenger

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing recognisable belongs to me. There will be four chapters to this particular story, and I suspect I will keep adding to the series. Posting schedule most likely around a chapter a week, possibly faster. 
> 
> There will be descriptions of diapers and infantilism, and so it stands to reason characters will be out of character. There will be no graphic sexual content. Don't like, don't read. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

"… please leave a message, and I will call you right back," Phil's voice called out of the tinny little speakers. Clint grimaced at the thing and hung up. He didn't like phones on the best of days, because it was hard to hear voices clearly through the background noise all the time, and his spelling sucked tit, so texting wasn't always in his favour, either.

He threw a look up at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was half past nine in the evening, and the wintery darkness laid heavy against the large, dark windows. Well, as dark as New York ever really got, which was still fairly dark when it came down to it and you were a million feet off the ground.

The tomato sauce he'd set to thaw in a pot earlier in the evening burbled happily on the stove when he lifted the lid, sending tiny droplets of red all around. The hob was already covered, and so was the side of the pot of water he'd put next to it. He'd figured he'd set it to boil when Phil was on his way home, but he'd waited a really long time already. He'd left the gym at five, like he usually did when there were no missions and no emergencies to take care of, and had expected Phil to come home around seven. Like usual, even though he was supposed to leave headquarters around five or else Fury would box his ears, or _hang him up by his eyelids and force him to blink_ , or something equally cruel.

Point was, Phil was usually home by now. Distracted and a little tired, but home.

Clint set the water to boil, and grabbed his phone again. It was pretty big and cumbersome, but the screen was large - and whatever Tony said - pretty much _made_ to play Candy Crush. Which, aside from being colourful and addictive, had the added benefit of letting him watch the goddamned phone like a hawk in case Phil decided to text him.

He failed the level five times in a row - fucking chocolates - and finally had to admit that the steam rolling out of the pot, all over the stove and causing little droplets to run down the window - he'd better wipe those off before Phil saw them in sunlight - meant he could set the spaghetti to boil.

Eating alone was different from eating with Phil. No one insisted he eat at the table like a civilised person, so he grabbed his plate of spaghetti and tomato sauce and way, way too much cheese - of the sort that melted, thanks, not that weird, powdery Italian shit Phil always said was "authentic" -, and brought it into the living room. Their couch was covered in light grey fabric, and Phil would have his hide if he spilled spaghetti all over it, but Clint happened to know Phil'd made sure they had two extra sets of cushion covers for occasions just like this one. And besides, Clint was pretty certain his puppy dog eyes would make Phil forgive him anyway, depending on Phil actually being in the same room with him, obviously.

It also meant that he could have his goddamned apple juice out of a regular glass - which just happened to be an empty Nutella jar, covered in little drawings of Tom and Jerry that he'd insisted Phil rinse out a few weeks earlier because _that was how you got those ridiculous cartoon glasses, Phil_ \- that didn't even have a lid. Life on the edge.

He hadn't thought to bring a napkin, and he hadn't changed his socks after coming home out of the sleet on the streets with leaky, ancient boots, so the couch probably would need a wash after Phil came home and put his neat-freak eyes on it, but whatever.

They were totally married, Clint supposed he was due to piss him off or at least punish his guy for disappearing on him in the most passive-aggressive way he could think of. Sweaty, stinky footprints and red spaghetti stains on the couch seemed mild in comparison to other things he'd done, like the time he'd almost sunk the helicarrier  _don't you fucking go there, Clint._

The novelty of doing everything Phil normally asked him not to do wore off once his belly was full of extremely hot spaghetti - tomato stays hot the longest, Phil usually said - and his Netflix queue gave him nothing but choices and nothing he particularly felt like watching. First world problem, sure, but still one that meant he was still awfully aware that it was almost a quarter past ten, and Phil hadn't contacted him.

He knew Phil was fine. The office would've called him, otherwise, because it was SHIELD, and they did that, so husbands and wives and family would know if there was something wrong or nothing wrong and nothing to worry about even though the news said differently.

Only Clint didn't watch the news, so half the time those calls just meant SHIELD called him up to let him know the nothing he didn't know about was nothing.

He snapped Phil his empty plate, left it on the living room table for himself to clean off and curse about resistant tomato stains the next morning, and grumbled his way to the bathroom to clean up before bed. He'd crossed from "fresh sweat and recent exercise" to "grown ass man who forgot to bring a towel to the gym, didn't want the clerk to know so didn't ask to borrow one, and skipped the shower altogether after four hours of working out and practicing," about an hour ago, and his muscles were letting him know they didn't appreciate him skipping a pretty vital step in his warming-down routine.

Also, he felt stinky and grubby, and clean clothes were only clean so long as they touched other clean things, rather than stick to his back as his post-workout sweat kept on going on the subway on his way back to the tower.

He really needed to get new boots, too, because his socks were that awful combination of soaked and sweaty - which was supposed to be difficult, considering his socks were wool and wool was supposed to be all kinds of good for sweaty feet because it was some kind of self-cleaning or whatever - and his boots had been through pretty much literal hell and the leather wasn't so much leather as gaffer tape he'd stuck to the inside to keep them from leaking. _That might be why they smell_ , his brain supplied as he plucked out his hearing aids and left them on the counter where the moisture from the shower would no doubt mean their life span would be halved, provided he didn't lose them first or actually remembered to put them in the dehumidifier tonight.

He probably wouldn't. There was a reason it was on Phil's side of the bed, anyway.

You got used to not being alone anymore, he thought to himself, rubbing body wash into his short hair and sighing internally when he noticed he'd got it mixed up with the shampoo again. Whatever, it's all soap, anyway, he thought, and grabbed the little bottle of watermelon-scented Minion shower gel hid away at the back. For the most part he stayed away from scented things, but watermelon was weird and kinda funny, and he was going to bed, anyway, so who the fuck would know?

No one, that's who.

He stumbled into bed twenty minutes later, having plugged in his phone and ignored the vibrating shit-thing Phil insisted would function as an alarm clock but only served to remind Clint of cheap motel beds that vibrated while you stared at yourself in a mirror on the ceiling, hoping the sheets wouldn't make you catch the clap or something. The elastic on his briefs were loose and washed out, and he'd put on a t-shirt out of habit, because Phil liked a cool bedroom and Clint's shoulders got cold, okay.

A hand on his shoulder shook him awake some indeterminate time later, and he blinked up at Phil, who'd jumped a couple feet back to avoid Clint's attempt at dislocating or breaking his arm.  
"Wet," Phil signed at him, and pulled back the duvet to point at the large puddle Clint had been comfortably asleep in up until then. "Clean up, come on."

"Sorry," Clint gestured, and made a few clumsy moves at pulling off the sheets while still trying to keep himself upright and his eyes open. Phil pulled him away, gently, and nudged him in the direction of the bathroom. "Clean up," he signed again, and bent over the bed like Clint had seen him do a million times before, still in his shirt and pants, but without a tie and belt. He tore off the sheets with practiced movements, not looking angry or frustrated. Just tired and soft around the edges, though Clint supposed that was probably the sleep boogers in his eyes.

His t-shirt was damp all the way up to his armpit, almost, and he left it and his briefs on the floor in front of the washing machine Phil had insisted they keep in the bathroom for what Clint suspected was this exact purpose - the tower had a laundry service, duh - and ambled into the shower. It was a blur of steam and soap, but when he got out Phil was shoving most of their dirty laundry of the "boil this with antibacterial detergent"-variety - meaning things covered in pee, towels and kitchen washcloths - into the washing machine. He was prodding the timer to make it start up by itself in the morning when Clint put his towel back on the rack to dry again.

"You're really late tonight," Clint signed, still feeling a little ruffled from the abrupt wake-up.  
"Sorry," Phil signed, and kissed him on the cheek while he unbuttoned his shirt. "Security cock-up with some of the new recruits."

It shouldn't feel as nice as it did to curl up with Phil as a long line of warmth against his back in sheets that smelled vaguely of the "clean laundry"-perfume he was pretty sure detergent contained when it said "unscented" on the box. The plastic sheet underneath them - which had been another of Phil's demands when they'd started sharing a bed on a regular basis and which Clint refused to talk about at all - crackled when he moved, even though it was supposed to act like fabric, or whatever - it totally didn't, but at least the mattress wasn't stained and smelly - and the duvet cover was just the right combination of clean and soft and a little starchy from the wash. Phil smelled like he needed a shower and had had too much coffee, but that was right, too, and the little orange nightlight next to his bedside threw a warm, soft glow over the chair in the corner where he'd abandoned his sweats after his last day off.  
_You don't train recruits anymore_ , Clint thought briefly before falling asleep again, and by morning he'd forgotten all about it.


	2. Not my Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the others know where Phil went, there must be a reason he didn't tell Clint. Right?
> 
> At least, that's the only theory Clint can come up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know about this story. Might come back and do some work it later, but I figure I might as well put it up here in the mean time. *shrug* Hope you enjoy.

"I've got the shot," Clint muttered to the comm unit attached to his ear, and threw himself sideways off a balcony to aim an arrow under the metal plates covering the soft body of the gigantic elephantine-thing Loki had popped up with hours previously before flipping off a security camera and vanishing into thin air. His aim was true, and the arrow wedged itself right where he'd intended. The creature groaned, threw its head backwards and attempted to flick a gigantic ear towards the mass of people with guns steadily moving forth beneath it, only to trip over the metal cables Hulk and Iron Man had strapped between two buildings like a trip wire. The resulting _thud_ as it hit the floor hid the smack of Clint hitting the side of the building moments later, one arm twined around the rope he'd managed to attach to the balcony he'd jumped from. 

 

The good news: The rope was attached to his quiver, which was attached to his shoulder around his chest. 

 

The bad news: He was pretty sure he couldn't breathe and that at least one of his shoulders was now joined to his ear, because _ow._

 

"Need some help, Hawkeye?" Iron Man asked in his ear, zooming up and hovering next to him like a gigantic bumblebee covered in goop and dust. Clint groaned and let Tony take his weight around the chest by wedging himself under one shoulder and then using his right glove to cut the rope. 

"I'll get you a new one," he said as Clint whined at him. "Up we go, m'lady." He put his other arm under Clint's knees and let them both float easily to ground level where the others were waiting in front of a familiar looking van and an ambulance where a paramedic was taping up a cut on Steve's bicep, looking both a little starstruck and worried about the huge, metal covered monster only half a block away. 

 

"Are you hurt, Clint?"

  
"No," he replied instinctively, even though his head was bleeding and his arm was bleeding and he'd possibly torn something in his shoulder which was probably bleeding, too. He hated paramedics. They were _grabby._

"You need stitches," Natasha muttered, tilting his head to the side to get access to the little gash on his neck. "I don't," he protested, and twisted loose only to have Steve grab at his arm. "You need stitches right here, too," he said, and Clint was pretty sure he saw the paramedic move in with a needle the size of his fucking arm. _"Leggome,"_ he growled, and twisted loose. "Where's Coulson?"

 

Natasha frowned at him like he was a puzzle, which, _okay,_ was her natural state, but so did Steve. "He's in Paraguay. He didn't tell you?"

"Oh, uh. Right, no, 'course he did."

"They shipped out last night," Natasha supplied, still frowning at him. 

"Yeah, no, I know," Clint said, and flapped his hand at her to make her shut up. 

 

_That explained things,_ he thought to himself as he allowed Bruce to tape his arm together with little strips. 

 

The night before had been another repeat of the last few weeks. Clint had come home from the gym, had stopped by Kate and Lucky's to drop off half a pizza he'd meant to have for lunch, and then picked up thai food before going back to the tower so Phil could yell at him and make him have broccoli with quinoa and tofu on it, or whatever, ew. Their flat had been silent and dark, even though it was after seven and Phil should've been back so they could argue about unhealthy food and heart attacks and then fallen asleep in front of an episode of 24 on Netflix with their feet entwined.

 

He'd showered, alone. Eaten cold takeout, alone. He'd waited for Phil, texted him, then _called him,_ and then finally gone off to bed when it had become a question of sacrificing the following day to sleepiness and caffeine overdoses, or just going to bed alone. 

 

He was a big boy. He'd been putting himself to bed for the majority of his life, and if it felt a little lonely… Well. There was no one there to laugh at him. 

 

It's just that he'd been being a big boy for weeks, now. _Really big_. Only Kitten and Piglet had been let out to play because he never put them away, exactly, but all the pajamas and soft socks and pull ups had stayed right where they were, untouched. And Clint had tried to let out his frustration at the gym or at the range, but however much his lower arms stung from not using his guards or his back ached from not warming up to the more demanding draw weights, it just _wasn't the same._ Without Phil there to make it easy to give in and let himself forget that he was longing for things he shouldn't he fell back into the same habit he'd spent most of his adult life in; pretending it wasn't on his mind, and that it wasn't something he wanted at all. It was hard enough to face another night alone in their apartment without adding constant self-deprecating thoughts, guilt and shame into the mix. 

 

They were grown men. _He_ was a grown man, for fucks sake, and however kind Phil's eyes were when he cleaned Clint's face of whatever he'd got on it, or however warm his hands were when they tickled his back in long, soothing strokes, Clint would just have to be fine on his own sometimes. And besides, the fact that he'd wet the bed so many times all the sheets were soaked and still in the laundry kind of magnified the fact. This was a  _sometimes-_ thing, not something Clint could allow to bleed into their everyday lives. Maybe Phil was staying away so he'd figure it out without having to have one of those rough heart-to-heart conversations where he'd have to set Clint straight, and Clint ended up obsessing over whatever thing he'd done that was causing trouble. 

 

Relationships weren't always great. Right? Marriage was _meant_ to be hard, hence the divorce rates and… 

 

_Keep telling yourself that, Barton._

 

"You okay, Clint?" Bruce asked, looking concerned and exhausted and pale all at the same time. The hand on Clint's bicep was trembling a little. Behind him, Natasha had a finger to her comm unit, and was talking to it in rapid Russian. _Maria, probably,_ Clint thought, and turned to see Steve watch Tony zoom away from them. Back to the tower now that the fight was over, probably.

 

"SHIELD are taking charge of the cleanup. We can head back, guys," Steve said, striding over to them with his blonde hair messy and his cowl fastened to his belt. He looked dirty and tired, too, like Bruce did, and probably Clint himself.

 

"Tony sent Happy to pick us up, but I think he's waiting behind the barrier," Steve said, taking lead. Bruce and Clint, dusty and sweaty after the fight, followed him without a word, while Natasha nodded at them and stepped into the SHIELD van instead.

 

The ride back was quiet, all three of them trying hard not to doze off in their post-adrenaline states. Clint's arms ached. So did his head, because between knocking it into the wall earlier, not sleeping properly for weeks and the water he hadn't been drinking it was sort of a miracle he wasn't passing out where he stood. He was pretty grateful for the dimly lit garage where there were no reporters and no security guards, only an elevator to take him upstairs. 

 

Steve looked almost asleep, slouched against the button panel and handle bar, his suit almost grey with dust. Bruce, however, blinked at him when Clint made to leave at his floor. "Want me to sew you up now or at dinner?"

 

"No, man, I've got to get back to SHIELD anyway. Might as well get them to do it there, you look beat," he managed, and even forced out a crooked smile. "I'm just gonna shower, then I'll be off."

 

Once inside their apartment, though, and faced with his half-drunk coffee and the TV still blaring out the DVD menu from this morning, he sunk into the couch cushions with no plans to leave pretty much ever. He sat, staring at his phone where he typed out and promptly deleted three messages of varying frustration to Phil. Lethargy built up in his belly, and he suddenly found he didn't care about the cuts on his arms - which were pitiful compared to the shit he  _normally_ hid from medical - or his dusty uniform or the fact that he hadn't showered, eaten or done anything to mitigate the slight post-adrenaline shock his body was bound to go through. He just couldn't. The others would be having dinner up at the common level, but their laughing faces and jokes made about the others' eclectic fighting styles somehow felt worse than leaning back on the couch and feeling sorry for himself. 

 

Finally, he tugged out his hearing aids so he couldn't hear the DVD-menu loop around constantly, and forced his eyes closed. When he finally fell asleep, it wasn't restful. He kept waking up, over and over to the point where he wasn't sure if he'd even actually been asleep for real, to check his phone and the room and the windows. Where the fuck was Phil?

 

_____

 

Waking up didn't feel better. His heart raced, and his head pounded in rhythm with it, even though he couldn't say what had woken him up so suddenly. After a moment, though, he realized the lights in the room were flashing, which was JARVIS' way of letting him know he had something to say. He squashed in one of the hearing aids on the table, grimaced and tried to yawn to snap it into place. 

 

"Captain Rogers is at the door, Agent Barton."

"Yeah, I'm not… It's not a good time," Clint replied, and threw his right arm over his eyes, wincing at the steady throb of pain under the bandages. 

"I'm afraid he's insisting I let him in, or he'll break down the door."

Clint grimaced, and sat up just as Steve's figure came barging into the living room, but halted in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, sorry. I didn't.. I didn't know you were asleep. You didn't come up for breakfast," Steve said, looking awkward and gigantic in his plaid shirt and chinos. "Or dinner."

 

"'s morning?" Clint asked, rubbing his hands through his hair and trying to get rid of the dust and sleep in his eyes. Then he froze, and looked down. _Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Shit._ He'd wet the couch and his uniform and _oh holy shit what even was his life._

"Uh, think you could give me some privacy? I'll be right up, I swear."

 

Some of his panic must have shown on his face, because Steve frowned and stepped closer. "Are you still in your uniform?" He asked. Clint tried to grab the quilt that hung over the back of the couch and spread it over himself, but somehow, with Steve watching every move, it just magnified the fact that he was trying to hide himself under his blanket. 

 

"Clint. Did you… Y'know?"

 

"Uh," Clint stalled, because yeah, Steve knew, but Steve didn't… This wasn't what Clint had promised himself the night before.

 

"You're _not my Daddy,"_ was what came out instead, and he nearly bit his tongue off trying to make himself shut up. "I mean, I didn't.. I just. It was an accident?"

 

Steve stepped even closer, and tugged at the blanket Clint was clutching to his chest. 

 

"No need to get this wet, too. C'mon, Clint."

 

"I thought you were having breakfast?" Clint squeaked out, pretty certain all the blood in his entire body had rushed right into his face. 

 

"Breakfast can wait until you're ready," was all Steve said, and finished folding up the blanket. He squinted down at the large, wet stain on the couch cushions, and then squeezed the bridge of his nose. "When is Phil coming home again?"

 

Clint shrugged, and picked away at the little loose thread sticking out from his damp, disgusting leather uniform. "Dunno," he muttered, and Steve sighed. 

 

"I know I'm not your daddy, but do you want my help today, Clint?"

 

Clint shrugged again. "No," he mumbled and shifted. His skin itched, and he was getting pretty smelly, too. "I can fix it myself. I'm s'posed to."

 

He didn't know Steve like he did Daddy, but the thought of someone telling him what to do and making sure he was clean and the couch wouldn't be ruined even more than it already was was tempting as hell, and Steve wouldn't tell. Steve was _Captain America,_ and Clint was pretty sure Captain America didn't tattle. 

 

"Don't tell Daddy?" He asked instead, and tilted his head up at Steve. "Or.. Or Tony?"

"I think they'll both find out," Steve said, looking at him with a soft expression. "And I'm not going to lie to either of them, but I wont tell tell them outright, okay?"

 

Clint picked away at his knee again. 

 

"Time for a bath, I think," Steve mumbled, and without another word he hefted Clint up over the back of the couch and marched them both into the bathroom. Then he stopped dead in the doorway and looked around with the sort of expression Clint sometimes saw Phil make in the beginning of their relationship, when the kind of mess Clint left in his wake was still a surprise.

 

There were wet towels all over the floor, not to mention the washer full of wet sheets and a basked of dirty clothes on top. Clint hadn't bothered putting other things back in place, either. It was, in short, a mess.

 

"Well," he finally said, starting to unbuckle Clint's vest because Clint's fingers had suddenly gone a little funny and couldn't figure them out at all, "at least the bathtub's clean."

 

"There are no sheets left," Clint whispered, resisting the urge to stick a finger in his mouth and blushing. "'m sorry."

 

Steve peeled his uniform off, layer by layer, until the pile of wet, stained leather on the floor was about the same size as the pile of laundry next to it. "I think we'll just call that uniform a write-off. I'm sure Tony can get you another without anyone asking any questions," Steve mumbled as Clint fidgeted in his wet underwear. Goosebumps were rising on his skin, and he smelled of sweat and pee and elephant, and it wasn't all that pleasant. The bathtub was only half filled, too, although the smell in the room improved immensely when Steve poured what appeared to be about half the bottle of watermelon shampoo into it. "Bubbles!" Clint mumbled around his index finger, which had somehow hooked itself in his mouth without him noticing.   
"Yeah," Steve smiled, and tugged his underwear right down. Clint blushed, but stepped out of them anyway, and let Steve hold his hand while he clambered into the bathtub. The water was warm and pleasant on his skin, and it felt nice to know he'd be clean again soon, even though the skin on his back and legs told him it'd been wet for quite long enough, thanks. 

 

And then his arm went under the water, and Clint couldn't quite keep the little squeak of pain to himself, because it stung. A _lot._

 

"Clint?" Steve asked, and frowned at him from where he was re-setting the washer to re-wash the laundry inside it, which had probably gone a bit funny from Clint not shoving it into the dryer. "What's wrong?"

 

"Hurts," Clint whispered, because it was easy to hide aches and pains when he was big, but when he was little it all seemed to leak out of him along with all his other secrets. "My arm hurts, 'ncle Steve."

 

Steve set his arm to rest on the edge of the tub instead of in the water, and that helped a little, and then he rubbed shampoo into Clint's hair and poured water over his head while holding a hand cupped over his forehead, just like Daddy did. Then he handed a washcloth to Clint and asked him if he wanted to clean himself up, or if he wanted Steve to help him. 

 

"C'n do it," Clint whispered, and rubbed the little terry cloth over his upper body and down below the water line to get rid of the dust and all the smelly pee. 

 

"Think it's time to come out now," Steve laughed as Clint tried to trap the last of the bubbles with the purple washcloth. "You're getting all wrinkled."

"Like a prune!" Clint supplied, feeling a little smile force its way onto his face despite everything. Steve helped him up and out of the tub, and dried him off with one of the big, fluffy towels Phil kept in the closet for "guests", though Clint wasn't about to tell Steve that, and then carried him into the bedroom. 

 

The bed was still free of sheets, but Steve had spread the changing mat out over it anyway, and there was a little pile of clothes next to it that looked a lot like the soft, grey sweats Clint had forgotten lived in the diaper bag in the closet, and a t-shirt with a gigantic Tigger on it, which Clint had _not_ forgotten lived in the diaper bag, thanks. 

 

"No diaper," Clint said immediately as Steve laid him down and his legs tilted themselves outwards by habit. "Dun want a diaper, 'ncle Steve."

 

"Well, I think it's a good idea, honey. You already had one accident, and maybe it'll help you sleep a bit better once we've gotten some breakfast into you, huh?"

 

Clint squirmed around on his back, but Steve handed him Kitty, and didn't give Clint time to argue much more before he was dusting powder all over him. It didn't feel much different from when Daddy did it, really, but when Daddy did it Clint didn't miss Daddy quite as much as he did right then. His finger snuck back into his mouth by its own volition, and Steve stroked his hair away from his forehead. 

  
"What's wrong, honey?"

 

"Daddy," Clint whispered, and couldn't quite stop his eyes from overflowing. Steve paused in tugging socks onto Clint's feet, and pulled him up and onto his lap instead. Clint rested his head against Steve's shoulder as Steve rocked a little from side to side. 

  
"I know, honey, but he's fine. Daddy's just fine, he's just working, huh? I'm sure he'll call soon."

 

But like hurts and pains, Clint couldn't help it anymore. "Didn't tell me he was leaving," he garbled into Steve's shoulder, and then started crying for _real._ God, he was _such_ a baby. "Din't know he was in Par'guay, or 'nything." 

 

Steve didn't say anything, but rocked quietly from side to side as Clint tried not to get Kitty too damp. Then Piglet was there, too, and Steve offered him one of the pacifiers Daddy had started keeping in his diaper bag after the airplane ride where he'd accidentally gone little. He took it, although normally his thumb was enough, because at least he couldn't keep sobbing with the thing in his mouth. Steve was shushing him into his hair, and he blinked heavy eyes out into the room from his sideways position on Steve's lap. 

 

"It's okay, sweetheart. Daddy's just working really hard, is all. He'll be home soon."

 

"Maybe he forgot his Clint," Clint mumbled around the pacifier, clutching Piglet and Kitty close to his chest. He shivered a little, getting cold in just a diaper and socks. Steve grabbed the duvet - still without a cover - from behind him and folded it around Clint, who couldn't stop his chest from doing that funny jerky thing it did when he'd cried lots. 

"How could anyone forget their Clint, huh?" He mumbled into Clint's hair, and Clint burrowed into him a little, because it'd been _a really long time_ since he'd gotten to be little and he was kinda a little bit scared, too. 

 

"Maybe," Clint whispered. "Maybe Clint's a lotta work 'n Daddy din't wanna anymore?"

 

It's a loaded thing to say, and he _knows_ there is nothing Steve can say to fix it right then and there, because it's between him and Phil, but he wants to be comforted and for someone to fix everything for him anyway. 

  
"Oh, sweetie," Steve replied, looking up at the doorway to the bedroom where Tony was standing, a pile of sheets in his hands, looking worried and a little confused in his jeans and t-shirt, like he'd been planning to spend the day in the workshop. 

"Daddy will be home soon and you'll see that everything is okay." Clint hiccuped a little and hoped Tony didn't take offense to him maybe sort of crying all over his Daddy. "'s not fine," he mumbled, and closed his eyes as Steve stood them both up, still rocking quietly from side to side. It was comfy. He reached up and tugged the hearing aid out of his ear just as Tony's voice came from the doorway. He was sleepy, now, and sleeping meant he didn't have to think about Daddy not being here or what Tony had to say or whether the bed was clean or not. He drifted off just as Steve turned towards the bed again and started easing him down onto the changing mat. Maybe when he woke up Daddy would be here, and it'd all just have been a bad dream. 

 

 


	3. Barton Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint spends the evening with Tony and Steve, and the writer procrastinates Phil's return for as long as humanly possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty useless chapter, truth be told, but uh. Whatever. It's a chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> I still don't own Disney or Marvel or the title (from the song "Barton Hollow") or anything else. Warnings still apply; If this isn't your thing, _go do something else._

When Clint woke up, his arm was bandaged neatly, and it didn't ache nearly as much as it had done before. He poked at the bandage anyway, just to test. He felt the strips holding the edges of the cut together pull on his skin. The rest of him felt beat up and unpleasantly sore, but that was par for the course after banging into buildings and forgetting to warm down after a fight.

 

He was in his own bed, but on the wrong side. Phil's side, closer to the door. The sheets under him were dark grey and clean, but didn't smell of Daddy's detergent, and the duvet was dark blue. They didn't _have_ a dark blue duvet cover. He squinted up at the window, which showed a rapidly darkening afternoon sky, and squirmed around until he could see the doorway. It was open, and the living room on the other side was lit up in soft lighting. He could see colours from the TV bouncing off the wall. It was pleasant, and he was warm and relatively comfortable. For a while, it was enough. He let the soft sheets and the lethargy of crying and causing such a fuss earlier carry him over for a while, but knowing that Steve was waiting out in the living room wouldn't let him doze off again. Besides, he'd never fall asleep tonight if he did, and he didn't much feel like sitting around waiting for Phil all alone again. 

 

Someone had put his hearing aids on the nightstand, but he pulled out the purple ones that didn't have a comm unit in them. He settled them into place quickly, Piglet still squished against his chest and Kitty wedged somewhere underneath his left thigh. The pacifier had been wedged under his cheek. He held it in his hand for a little bit, and let the distant buzz of voices from the TV wash over him as he considered the little plastic thing. It was different than his thumb. He didn't know if he liked it better or not, but it was okay for bedtime, he supposed. Someone blocked the light from the TV, and he looked up to see Tony standing in the doorway, looking hesitant and a little concerned, but very _big._ He popped the pacifier back into his mouth, and promptly turned an unflattering shade of fire-engine red. At least the thing meant he didn't have to  _talk._  


 

"Hey, kiddo," Tony said in a voice that didn't sound at _all_ like Tony. It was kinda soft and considering. Clint frowned at him. "Sleep well? You slept for a long time, anyway."

  
"Was sleepy," Clint muttered around his pacifier, and rubbed his eyes. Tony folded back the duvet and tugged him into standing position. "Daddy says it's time to eat," he explained, Clint thought maybe Tony didn't feel so big after all. "And you haven't eaten since before the elephant fight, anyway." He folded back the covers Clint had been snuggled under, and the cool air made Clint blink sleep out of his eyes a little quicker. It was hard not to feel at least a  _little_ sleepy while still sitting in bed. 

 

"Is Daddy here?" He asked, toddling after Tony and trying not to blush at the squish of his wet diaper. He didn't know when it had happened, but he wasn't really very surprised that it _had. Oops._  "Sorry," Tony said, looking back at him. "Natasha's been sent out, too."

"Tasha doesn't know," Clint mumbled, and Tony shrugged. "Tasha knows ev'rything," he replied. "Maybe she found out and she'll kick his ass for us?"

 

Clint's breath started going funny just as they came out into the living room, and Steve went from smiling at them from the kitchen doorway, to striding over to him in long, loping steps. "Hey, hey, kiddo, what's with the tears?" He asked, and swung Clint onto his hip. It felt really, really nice to have someone be so worried he was going to start to cry, so Clint promptly started to cry for real. Steve patted his backside, and then bounced him a little. Clint blushed. He wanted a change and he wanted his daddy, and he didn't want Steve to be the one to provide either of those things, but it seemed he was out of luck.

  
"Can you get the pizza out of the oven and on the table, Tony? We'll be right back."

 

He didn't have it in him to argue that he didn't need to be changed, or that he could do it himself. He had the vague notion that this was what Daddy called "very little," but it didn't matter. Steve, at least, wouldn't let him walk around with wet pants, which was better than nothing. The bathroom was tidy and clean now, and only the vaguest scent of watermelon and wet leather lingered. The washing machine was rumbling away happily in the corner. Clint looked around, but didn't comment. It wasn't his job to make sure the bathroom was clean when he was little, even though the embarrassment burned in his belly at Steve knowing he hadn't been able to keep it tidy.

"I talked to Natasha. She was already on her way when we finished up yesterday," Steve said. "I just got word back from her. Phil and his team got stuck in a diplomatic _mess_ leaving Bolivia, but they're on their way back now." Clint could tell he was choosing his words carefully. He  managed to only let a few more tears escape, and then whined as Steve insisted on using the same icky rash cream Daddy did. "He'll be back by morning."

Clint shrugged, and rubbed Kitty's soft underbelly against his upper lip. Having Daddy home would've been really, really nice last night, but he didn't know why Daddy hadn't called Clint or hadn't even wanted to talk to him  _now,_ and having to explain all that to Daddy when words felt distant and difficult and very, very big felt hard.

 

Steve tugged Clint's pants back up and let him make his way out of the bathroom ahead of him. They all settled on the couch, Steve squished in between Clint and Tony. Someone had cut Clint's pizza into smaller pieces, and there was a large fleece blanket that Phil sometimes put on the floor spread over the couch cushions, which had been changed, too. It didn't matter too much if Clint spilled his pizza with the blanket underneath, but he was still pretty relieved when Steve handed him a sippy cup instead of a regular glass. He spit his pacifier out and stuck it in his mouth immediately. Steve laughed and plucked the pacifier out of harms way. It was already covered in fleecy lint. "Thirsty, huh?"

 

Clint let the cup go, and it sucked in air to replace the juice he'd drained from it. "Uh-huh," he mumbled, and then pointed at the TV-screen where Tony had just un-paused Snow White.  "Is that okay? Do you like this movie?" Steve asked, and Clint nodded, getting pepperoni all over his hand and onto the white bandage around his arm. He went to remove it, but mostly he just managed to marinate his hands in the oily sauce instead.

"It's okay," Steve said immediately, and wiped Clint's hand on the damp cloth he'd left on the table. "We cleaned your cut out earlier, and that's just a bandage on top so you don't get it dirty. We can just switch it before bed, okay?" He was speaking in that infuriatingly soft voice again, that oozed patience and kindness, and Clint hated it a little. 

 

After dinner Steve tipped Clint's box of Legos on its head, so the little bricks were spread out all over the floor. Tony was good at playing with Legos. They'd managed to build the foundations of a really awesome little village when Steve clapped his hands and announced it was bedtime. The end credits of the movie were playing in the background. Which, okay, Clint had maybe been yawning a lot and his eyes were a little itchy, but he'd been asleep pretty much _all day_. He whined. Tony scowled at Steve. "Why we gotta go to bed?" He grumped, and Steve frowned back.

"Little boys sleep a lot," Steve reminded them. "You do, too, when you're that little, Tony. Besides, how many hours of sleep did you catch in the workshop last night?" He raised an eyebrow, and Tony fiddled with the trees he had in his hands that were meant to be a boulevard on a street that went parallel to the wood grain in the floor.  "Wanna play more," Tony sulked, and Clint nodded, thumb firmly lodged between his lips. "More," he agreed. Although he maybe sorta needed a change because he'd maybe had a lot of juice, and the idea of curling up in bed with a bottle and Piglet and Kitty didn't sound so bad. For a moment they sat frozen in their little stand off. 

 

"I sleepin' here?" Clint finally asked, and Tony and Steve lost their annoyed expressions.

"Do you want to?"

"'s my bed," he said. He plucked at the string on his sweats, tugged at it a little and then let it go when he realized it was drawing attention to his diaper and that was _embarrassing._

"You could sleep upstairs in our apartment," Steve suggested, but Clint frowned. "Daddy's comin' home tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," Tony replied, sitting on his knees and putting the finishing touches on the fire station. The sign said "Police," but that was just because Clint didn't have any others. He didn't even have any horses to go _in_ the firestation. Tony probably had all kinds of animals. Clint's supply of toys was limited, mostly to a couple sets of Lego and a few stuffed animals, because he'd been so worried someone would find out. The larger the stash, the more difficult to hide, he'd figured. Right now he kind of regretted that particular decision.

"I sleep here," he decided firmly. He wanted to be in his bed and be big when Daddy came home, and he couldn't do that if Steve was tucking him into a guest bed and keeping an ear out for him all night.

"That's okay," Steve replied, and Tony scowled at him again, open mouthed. "JARVIS can look after you," he said pointedly to Tony, who nodded. "Uh. Sure. JARVIS used to look after me all the time, he's pretty good at it."

 

Steve frowned at the pair of them. Then Tony threw a rubber wheel at Clint because Clint had tried to plant his trees indoors. Steve seemed to take it as a sign that it was bedtime for the both of them. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, after Steve had wrestled Tony out the door and made sure Clint had clean teeth and that both Kitty and Piglet were nearby and he was dry and everything was okay and he had water by his bed and the sheets were straight and Clint had kind of maybe gotten a little grumpy that he wouldn't leave, Clint refused to let himself regret wanting to be alone. Everything felt squirmy inside of him, like a million butterflies were refusing to go to bed.

"JARVIS?" He asked, and blinked out at the dark room. He hated having his back to the bedroom and windows. It wasn't so bad when Phil was there, snoring along next to him, but without him the room felt big and dangerous. "Yes, master Barton."

"Just wanted to see if you were there," he mumbled, and buried his face in the pillow again. 

 

In the early hours of the morning a dark figure crawled into bed. It paused, for a moment, on the side of the bed where Clint was snoozing. His mouth was open and he had one arm thrown up over his head. Then, quiet as a mouse, the figure covered them both up with the duvet. 

For a minute, Phil watched Clint's profile in the glow of the orange nightlight, then he picked up the pacifier Clint had lost in sleep. Clint sucked it in when Phil held it to his lips, and then settled on his side with Piglet clutched tight against his chest. He looked pale, and the skin around his eyes was red and a little puffy, like he'd been crying. Phil's stomach gave a jolt that pulsed perfectly along with the ache in his ribs and the bruise on the side of his neck where Natasha had pinched him in the elevator.

 

He was in  _so much trouble._


	4. I didn't forget, I just forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ah_ , Phil thought as he drifted off. _Bribery. The secret to forgiveness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter in this tiny little thing.
> 
> If you liked it: Don't worry, there will be more in this universe. I'm having way too much fun!  
> Thanks for reading, your comments and kudos' are all making me very happy. <3

When Clint opened his eyes he found himself still in that halfway-space between big and little. He needed to pee, though, and the gust of air from beside him made him jump. Warmth spread through his pants as he turned to stare at Phil, who was deeply asleep on Clint's side of the bed. He blushed, even though Phil clearly had no idea what Clint was up to, and fidgeted until he was done. The alarm clock on Phil's nightstand told him it was 9AM, which wasn't so bad considering he was taking the entire day, if not _month_ off after the past week. 

 

He kinda wanted to prod Phil awake, but the dark blue patches under his eyes told him not to, so instead he squirmed his way out of bed as quietly as possible, waddled into the bathroom and cleaned himself up. Showering felt good, like he'd washed off yesterday's embarrassment. He was still keenly aware that he didn't feel big, per se. He just felt like he _ought to_ feel big. Which meant he _should_ probably be big, he just… Wasn't. 

 

He stood deliberating over his underwear drawer for a while. Wearing underwear seemed the most sensible thing to do, but he knew his track record when he didn't feel big. He dug out a pull up. It would hide away under his jeans just fine, and he didn't want to pee his pants in front of everyone. _Daddy would be proud that he was doing this by himself,_ he thought, even though Daddy was asleep and had gone off to rescue South America from killer bees, or missed the last bus home or something.

 

He had cold pizza for breakfast along with a large cup of coffee and a glass of juice, because no one told him not to and pizza was a perfectly balanced meal, thanks, and then ended up on the living room carpet, digging through the box of toys for another Lego sign that didn't say "POLICE" on it because their fire station looked all wrong with the wrong sign.

  
"JARVIS?" He asked, and looked up at the ceiling even though that wasn't were JARVIS lived. "Does Tony have Lego's?"

"I believe he does. He is in his workshop currently, if you would like to see."

 

There was something soft in JARVIS' voice that Clint couldn't quite pin down, but whatever. He thought JARVIS was kinda amused by his antics, sometimes.

 

"'kay, tell him I'm coming to visit?" He replied, and then made his way out to the elevator. Phil had, at the very least, come home to sleep next to him. Things couldn't be that bad, could they? And besides, Clint had to keep occupied until he woke up. He'd drive himself nuts if he had to hang out and do nothing half the morning.

 

He'd been in Tony's workshop enough times to know that Tony didn't normally have a gigantic box of toys on the floor in front of the couch he had down there, but Tony was bent over it, digging like he was on a mission. 

"I had a fire station before," he said, sounding perfectly normal. "But I took it apart and I think the sign is at the bottom?" He was in his jeans and a t-shirt again, and he looked perfectly Big today. Clint thought maybe him being Little was dragging Tony into his own headspace.

"I can help you," Clint offered, and they kneeled side by side for a while, until Clint found horses and Tony found swords and those were all fun, too. "I can make us a new sign," Tony said. "And we can put lights on it. Look, this is the only white horse so I think maybe it should be king?"

 

"Mr Banner has prepared lunch in the communal kitchen," JARVIS interrupted them a little while later, and they both blinked and looked up like they'd woken from a deep trance. "Can I leave the stable here?" Clint asked. Tony nodded and shoved the whole tray under the couch where it wasn't immediately visible. They got to their feet, shook out the stiffness of having been still for a while, and made their way towards the kitchen together. 

 

Phil was there, and Clint stiffened at the sight of him, but pretended he hadn't noticed and got in line after Tony to get rice. Bruce ladled it up on plates for them like it was a school lunch, and he managed to snatch the seat right next to Tony, with Steve on the other side. 

 

He snuck little peeks up at his Daddy between bites of curry, but Phil looked too busy to notice. He was discussing the situation in Bolivia with Natasha, who didn't seem all that interested, really. Her eyes darted between the two of them, like she was trying to figure something out. Clint swallowed down the lump in his throat, and pushed the last few bites of chicken around on his plate. Steve patted his thigh, and Tony scowled at his rice. Clint felt like he'd manipulated them both into some weird "Avengers Against Agent"-campaign, and that felt a little dumb, too, but Daddy hadn't even given him a kiss hello even though Clint had been waiting for him for _days._

 

Finally, when Phil turned to Bruce to compliment the food Clint couldn't take it anymore, and got quietly to his feet so he could stalk out of the room back towards Tony's workshop. The horses tipped over when he pulled the tray of lego out from underneath the couch, but his hands shook too much to right them properly, and finally he just rested his forehead on his knees and fumed instead. His pull-up was maybe a bit damp, too, though he couldn't remember when that had happened, and the warm food had made him drowsy even though the churning in his stomach seemed to be pushing tears out of his eyes without his help. His belly didn't seem to care that he was probably overreacting and that it wasn't Phil's fault that Clint felt little and icky, and that Steve had had to come in and take care of him and wash his sheets.

 

Tony came in after a while. He sat down beside Clint, leaning against the couch like he'd done earlier. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, just kept digging for knights and helmets in the box of people he had in front of him. Clint tried to rub his face dry with his knuckles, but he was pretty sure his face was all red and blotchy anyway.

 

"Steve got a little upset and they're all talking right now," Tony said quietly, and Clint unburied his face from his jeans and looked at him. "In front of the others?" He asked in a trembling voice, and Tony gave him a funny look. "'course not, they're downstairs in our living room."

"Oh."

 

They were quiet for a bit again, just building and listening to the whirs and clicks of the workshop. Dummy had a few lego bricks, too, and was trying to piece them together enthusiastically. 

 

"Sometimes I don't go Big right away, either," Tony said. "Yeah," Clint replied. "But your Daddy doesn't forget that you sometimes go little either _,_ right?" Tony shrugged. "No, but it's my job to let him know when it feels like I'm about to, or if I want to."

"I'm no good at that," Clint mumbled.

  
"Hi, boys," Phil said, looking a little nervous and a lot tired. He was leaning against the doorway, looking uncertain of his welcome. He still had those rings under his eyes, Clint noticed. "I think we need to talk?"

Clint squirmed, and Tony scowled at Phil. "Clint?"

"'kay," Clint mumbled, but couldn't help the tears that suddenly started filling his eyes again, because the lump in his stomach seemed to grow the closer he got in proximity to Phil.

 

Phil didn't say anything on their way down. Clint stood beside him in the elevator, his head repeating over and over _he left without saying anything_ , until he was fuming again. He stomped his feet childishly when the doors opened. He wanted to see Phil's reaction, wanted him to look like he was upset by Clint's anger, but when he looked back and Phil was hanging his jacket up on a coat hanger like he always did the lump twisted violently behind his ribs instead. Clint kicked off his sneakers so they bounced off the hallway wall, and that did it. Phil shook his head warningly. "That's not okay, kiddo. I get that you're angry, but we don't do that."

Clint scowled. 

 

Phil sighed. "I'm going to make some coffee. Would you like a cup?"

Clint blinked, because Phil never let him have coffee when he was little. "Huh?" He said, and Phil turned around to really look at him. "What?"

"Never mind," Clint replied, and turned to go to the bedroom so he could change his pants without Phil knowing. For the first time in a very long time when it was just the two of them, he felt uncertain and icky about having had an accident, even though Phil had never said a bad word about his little problem. He passed Phil in the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards. 

 

"Would you like the green or the blue cup?" Phil asked, and Clint scowled so hard he wasn't sure his face could physically put his eyebrows closer to his nose. "Wait for me in the living room, please," Daddy called, and though Clint wanted to keep stomping around and make it clear he was really, _really_ upset, the living room seemed as good a spot to fume as any. The squish in his pants when he sat down gave him almost vindictive pleasure. _That's what you get for not paying attention,_ he thought, and then immediately felt guilty and embarrassed. He felt the cushion beneath him surreptitiously, but it felt dry.

 

Phil came in moments later with Clint's green sippy cup and his own yellow coffee mug. The plastic felt lukewarm to Clint's touch, and when he sipped at it he couldn't help but give Phil a genuinely surprised look. It was filled with sweet, milky, chocolate-y coffee. He squirmed, and Phil squeezed his knee. 

 

"I didn't forget, you know," he said in that slightly hoarse voice that Clint loved so much. "It's just that I don't have that timer inside of me that tells me when you need to play."

 

Clint couldn't help but squirm, because they'd had this conversation maybe a million times already. 

 

"Although I will confess I dropped the ball this past week. I'm so sorry, Clint, I meant to call you, but by the time I remembered that I _hadn't_ we'd already gone behind enemy lines, so to speak. No radio contact."

  
Clint fidgeted even more, and turned the sippy cup upside down to see if it would drip on his pants just for the sake of it. Phil tugged it away from him, and held it against his dark grey suit pants. Clint picked at his cuticles instead, to avoid looking Phil in the eye.

 

"And that's a shitty excuse, I know. I'm very glad Steve and Tony were here, but maybe next time you could let me know that you're waiting for me to take the first step?"

  
"That wouldn't be you taking the first step," Clint whispered. 

 

Daddy watched him for a little while. "I didn't know you needed Little-time," he said, and Clint only just managed to keep from pouting at him outright.

 

"I forget to call you all the time, but you already know where 'm goin' a'cause you're my boss," Clint muttered, and Phil closed his eyes for a moment. "So you already know where I go, but I didn't, and then you were gone and I had a cut on my arm and I hadn't even been little for _weeks,_ and all the sheets were wet, and -" on some level he knows he's making a hash of explaining to Phil why he'd been upset, but this is what it's like, being stuck right in the middle. He can't always find all his words and things just _happen._

 

"Do you think we could try to do this weekend over again? Like a do-over?" Phil asked, his voice soft like it was when he wanted Clint to know he was trying to be honest and home-Phil instead of work-Phil.

 

Clint shrugged. 

 

"Only if you remember to tell me before you go away to keep half of Southern America from collapsing in a big pile of pyramids and drug lords," he mumbled around the index finger that kept sneaking into his mouth. Phil snorted. 

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

 

They sat in silence for a few moments, the lump behind Clint's chest bone somehow lessening in size and leaving a large, sleepy void instead. He yawned. Phil smiled at his hands, still holding Clint's cup.

 

"'m wet," Clint whispered finally, because his pants felt cold and wet and uncomfortable now, and Phil nodded. "I know. I think it's time for a cuddle anyway, huh?" He did that thing where he pinched his hand around Clint's neck and shook a little, and Clint squeaked at the way it tickled. "Dooon't," he laughed, as Phil's hand squirmed in under his sweater and tickled his belly. "I'm gonna leak, Daddy, and it'll be your fault," he laughed. "Probably too late for that," Phil laughed, and Clint blushed. "Come on, kiddo. Changing time."

 

"Steve was really nice to me," he said a while later after Phil had cleaned him up and dragged them both into the bedroom to have a nap in their borrowed sheets, "but he's not you."

Phil smiled, a tired sort of smile that was only for Clint. "And he didn't read me a story, either."

"Wow," Phil replied. "I should report Captain America to the police."

"Uh-huh," Clint muttered, trying to keep his eyes open even though Daddy was doing that thing where he scraped his nails gently down his back. He kept hitting the edge of the diaper that was sticking out of Clint's pants, but it was too comfortable and pleasant for him to get very embarrassed about it.

"But he had dry sheets and Tony has Lego horses."

"Yeah," Phil said. "Those are good too."

Clint spent a moment staring up at Phil's blue eyes.

 

"So you're really not tired of your Clint?"

Phil's fingers stilled for a second, but then repeated their slow trip up and down his back. 

"Never," he whispered, "though if I ever forget to let you know I'm off to war again, I should probably let you know that neither you, Steve _or_ Tony need to kick me in the kidneys, because Natasha will probably get there first, and I'm pretty sure Thor cursed me to turn into a toad if I overstep. I'm _really_ sorry."

"'s okay, Daddy. I maybe wet the couch a little bit and I think there are legos in the washer and we're out of watermelon shampoo and 'm sorry, too."

Phil didn't quite know what kind of forgiveness that would translate into when Clint felt bigger again, but as far as peace offerings went, it wasn't so bad. 

"That's okay. We can clean all that up."

"And I want a fire station lego kit."

 

_Ah,_ Phil thought as he drifted off. _Bribery. The secret to forgiveness._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [tumblr](tumblr.com/marieincolour), though you should be warned I reblog everything I like in no particular order.


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